Part 5 (1/2)
”Well, at least that's a happy occasion.”
”Not really,” George said glumly. ”We can't stand our daughter-in-law, and I doubt that the baby was fathered by our worthless son. He never accomplished a thing in his whole life, and it don't seem possible that he could have pulled this off either.”
Longarm turned toward the window. He could already see that this was going to be a long, humorless trip. The Bueltons certainly weren't good traveling company, and he didn't care to hear all the sad details about the failure of their sons or the illegitimacy of their new grandchild.
”You look like a man that has been around some,” Agnes said after the coach had left Ash Fork. ”You look as if you've had some hard miles.”
Longarm was becoming irritated. ”Well, ma'am, you don't look that all-fired wonderful to me either.”
”What do you do for a living?” George asked, his lips curling down at the corners.
”None of your business.”
”You might be one of Hank Ba.s.s's men gonna pull a gun on us and help him rob this stage.”
”You have a better imagination than you have a sense of humor,” Longarm clipped with no small amount of sarcasm. ”Now, why don't we all just shut up and enjoy the views.”
”Seen *em about a hundred times before,” Agnes snapped. ”Never seen you before, though.”
”And, after we get to Prescott, I don't expect that you ever will again,” Longarm said, closing the conversation.
The coach rolled along and the ride was blessedly silent and uneventful all the rest of the way down to Prescott. When it arrived at that scenic and thriving town, Longarm jumped out and marched away, hearing Agnes say, ”I still think he's up to no d.a.m.n good.”
”I need a drink,” Longarm told the saloon keeper as he dropped his bags and leaned his weapons up against the bar. ”Whiskey, and make it a double.”
”You just get off the stage from Ash Fork?”
”I did.”
”No sign of that poor young woman, huh?”
”What woman?”
”Why, Miss Hathaway. She, her fiance, and their driver were attacked by Ba.s.s and his gang yesterday.”
Longarm took a deep, steadying breath. ”And?”
”The driver went for his gun and was shot to death. Our banker, Bernard Potter, he was wounded and ain't expected to live. And d.a.m.ned if Ba.s.s didn't take Miss Hathaway away. That poor woman hasn't been seen since!”
Longarm tossed his whiskey down. ”What about a posse?”
”Ain't n.o.body willing to ride after that gang.”
”Hit me again,” Longarm growled.
When he'd had his second drink, Longarm said, ”Has this town hired a new marshal?”
”Can't find one stupid enough to take the job,” the saloon keeper answered. ”Not at any price.”
”So there's no law whatsoever?”
”Just the law of the gun, same as there is in most towns out west. The dying banker has offered a small dollar reward for the safe return of his fiance. But he's such a skinflint that a hundred dollars hasn't generated any takers.”
”A hundred lousy dollars?”
The saloon keeper shrugged. ”What the h.e.l.l does he care since he's dying?”
”Yeah,” Longarm said, ”I guess I see your point.”
Longarm considered what should be done about Miss Victoria Hathaway. He could not just turn his back on her plight and ride down to Wickenburg to help Jimmy c.o.x. Not until he put this matter to rest and brought Ba.s.s and his men to rope justice.
”Where do you think Ba.s.s might have taken Miss Hathaway?”
”Who knows? Most think he took her for ransom. Probably waiting for Mr. Potter to offer a whole lot more than one hundred dollars in reward.”
”All right,” Longarm said. ”Where can I buy or rent a good saddle horse?”
”You going after that reward?”
”Maybe.”
”Best forget it,” the bartender advised. ”A dead man can't spend no piddling hundred dollars of reward money.”
”Just answer my question.”
”Livery is at the end of the street. Called the Circle Bar Livery. You can't miss it. The owner, Joe Blue, he won't try to skin you too bad, but he doesn't give any thing away either.”
”Thanks,” Longarm said, picking up his bag, the shotgun, and his Winchester.
”You a bounty hunter?” the bartender shouted as Longarm pa.s.sed outside.
”Nope.”
Several minutes later he was at the livery and talking to Joe Blue, who was slender, as smelly as a billy goat, and about his own age. ”Mr. Blue, I need a good horse.”
”To buy, or just to rent?”
Longarm frowned, then suddenly remembered that he was almost dead broke. ”Be right back,” he said. ”Got some funds that have been wired to the bank.”
”Bank is closed,” Blue said. ”on account of Mr. Potter being shot up and lyin' on his deathbed.”
”When will it reopen?”
”Everybody would sure as h.e.l.l like to know the answer to that question.”
”But I need the money that was wired there to get a horse! And I need it now.”
”Sorry,” Blue said. ”I'm real happy to say that I don't have nothin' to do with the bank. I'm smart enough to keep my own money hidden in a tobacco can off somewheres that n.o.body would ever find.”
Longarm dragged out his billfold and counted the last of his personal funds. ”I've got a thirty-eight dollars left.”